


After Ever

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-10-05 18:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10313996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: “Patience is the calm acceptance that things can happen in a different order than the one you have in mind.”  -- David G. Allen





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OccasionallyCreative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY OCCASIONALLY CREATIVE!
> 
> She gave me the prompt of "Happier" by Ed Sheeran. We had nattered on a bit about ideas and this is what I'm giving to her. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Also big thanks to GS Jenner for helping me figure out how immigration and employment works in the UK. 
> 
> Edited by me.

“How do I look?” Molly asked.

Sherlock took in the vision of Molly in her wedding gown. It wasn’t a frothy confection, nor cleanly elegant. If anything, it was perfectly her. While the skirt was layers and layers of tulle, it didn’t look like some Cinderella nightmare because it lay close to her body, but also swayed a bit every time a breeze went by, giving her the illusion of floating. The satin bodice and lace overlay with the off-the shoulder sleeves made her looks sweetly feminine. Even the satin bow around the waist was the right touch.

“You look,” he began, the words feeling thick in his throat. “Perfect.”

She smiled, then adjusted her veil. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “Are you ready?”

He nodded, just as the organ began the play.

With that, the doors opened and taking her arm, Sherlock escorted Molly down the aisle. They passed by familiar faces -- Lestrade, John with toddler Rosie sitting next to him, and Mrs. Hudson. They all smiled. Even Mrs. Hudson dabbed at the corner of her eye, wiping away tears.

The walk felt so right, as if everything in his life was waiting for this moment. Sherlock didn’t want the moment to end, even though he mocked sentiment.

Then he saw her turn to the groom -- Michael Dier -- and give him the biggest, most dazzling smile he had ever seen her bestow on anyone. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Michael said, taking her hands. He nodded at Sherlock. “Thanks for coming,” he said. 

Sherlock feigned a smile, nodded and then went to sit with John as the ceremony began.

It was a beautiful ceremony. The bride and groom looked blissfully happy. There were tears as both of them said their vows. Sherlock wanted to flee, but knew better. 

“You didn’t tell her did you?” John asked during the reception. Rosie was being whisked around the dance floor by Michael as 24 Karat Magic blared. She was giggling wildly at the faces Michael was making and soon was swept up into the crowd.

Sherlock shook his head. “I couldn’t do that to her,” he said. “Just look at her,” he glanced in her direction. Molly was swinging around in Michael’s arms, laughing and singing along with Rosie to the music. “It would be selfish of me to do that to her.” 

“Good,” John breathed, “I was worried for a moment.”

Before more could be said, Rosie bounded over to her father and grabbed his hand. “Come dance!” she said, dragging him out on the floor. 

“We’ll talk later,” John said, disappearing into the scrum.

Sherlock blended into the corner, watching the festivities. The worst thing was that he couldn’t even hate Michael. The only sin he could see was that Michael was an American, with the big emotions and easy nature that marked most of his countrymen. Even though he was suspicious of Michael in the beginning, Sherlock found himself won over by that openness. Hating Michael was like hating a golden retriever -- bloody impossible. 

His bright blue eyes, wide open face and blond curls mixed with that stature of someone who enjoyed running around outdoors and playing athletic games indicated that he was an uncomplicated person who enjoyed goofy jokes and terrible puns. Everyone liked him. John said he thought Michael was sweet and kind. Lestrade loved talking about football with him. Mrs. Hudson thought he was remarkably fit. 

It didn’t help that he was practically a genius when it came to pathology. Formerly from Johns Hopkins, Michael had written papers on autoimmune diseases that even Sherlock found himself referencing for cases. The man was a treasure trove of information. 

Not to mention, Sherlock was the one who broke up with Molly shortly after Sherrinford. It had all been too much, he admitted to her. The discovery of a sister and the aftermath of realizing she was a murderer. He wanted to reach out to Eurus and mend things with her and with that, he realized that giving himself fully over to a relationship wasn’t possible.

It didn’t help that being consumed by cases, not talking for days and vanishing for hours to help take care of family (Mycroft was also showing wear and tear at that point, despite his repeated denials), caused the smile to fade from her face.

Molly had taken the news gracefully. She told Sherlock she would always be his friend and be around to help him in whatever way she could. And she was. It was awkward in the beginning, but they soon reached an easy rapport that Sherlock relied on as much as John’s friendship. 

Then she met Michael. Before Sherlock realized it, Michael was coming into the morgue more often, bringing coffee for Molly and occasionally Sherlock. 

“He’s attracted to you,” Sherlock commented one day while they were working together.

Molly shook her head and laughed. “No,” she said, “He’s an American. They’re all friendly like that.”

“He’s memorized your coffee order and remembers the buns you like,” Sherlock said. “Also I’ve seen him fussing with his hair before he comes in to see you.”

She blushed, “Well that’s just odd,” she began. “Having your ex tell you another man likes you.”

“I want you happy,” Sherlock said, “Even if it’s not with me in that manner.”

Molly bit her lip, as if she was going to say something, but then stopped as Michael burst in the door with a drink tray and three coffees.

“Hey,” he said, dropping the containers off in front of Molly and Sherlock. “I was looking for you guys. I’ve got a question about a possible poisoning.”

Sherlock grabbed his phone and glanced at it, “Molly can help you,” he said, pulling on his coat. “I’ve got a call about a case.” He grabbed the cup and ignored the glare Molly was shooting him, “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Oh anytime,” Michael said as Sherlock stalked out of the morgue. 

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock peered into the morgue. They were closer together and Michael was talking in that big animated American way -- arms waving, head bobbing. He wanted to hate it, but Sherlock knew it was a sign of how passionate Michael was about the topic. And Molly was listening, eyes bright with interest, occasionally stopping him to interject something that made them both laugh. 

Indeed, she looked happier. And in a way, Sherlock was happy for her also, even though he wished he could have made her smile like that when they were together. 

_ She’s the greatest love of my life _ , he heard Michael say once with an earnest tone that surprised him,  _ I’d do anything to make her happy _ . Sherlock knew he would believe that until his dying breath, even though part of him wished he was wrong.

So it was no surprise to him when she announced she was engaged. But he suddenly found himself wishing he hadn’t ended the romantic aspect of their relationship. Which is how he found himself in that predicament today -- longing for the bride, but having better sense than to tell her to run away with him. 

If he was brutally honest, Sherlock would say that he would put her happiness over his every time. Which is why he agreed to come to the wedding, agreed to escort her down the aisle in lieu of her father and silently agreed that Michael was a better match for her.

Not that it made him any happier. 

His mobile pinged.

Glancing at it, he saw a familiar message.

_ Let’s have dinner _ .

Sherlock scanned the hall. John was nowhere to be seen, and somehow, in the midst of his reveries, the celebrated couple had slipped away. No one would miss him if he left. Well, John would, but Sherlock would explain and be forgiven. John understood how hard today was for him.

His fingers moved over the screen.

_ I’m famished _ , he wrote, then slipped out of the hall, the cheerful noise fading away into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and the love!

Perspiration. The staccato snap of hips thrusting wildly as biology supersedes logic and an orgasm starts to build in the base of one’s spine. His hands gripped on her hips tightly as she ground into him, urging him onwards. For Irene Adler, all of this was perfectly predictable, yet also interesting to watch.

Watching Sherlock Holmes’ face contort in agonized bliss as his orgasm overcame him, she had one thought in her head.

_ All men look like they’ve been bit by a zombie when they come.   _

His eyes were closed and he was panting heavily as she gracefully lifted herself off of him and settled next to him cross-legged. 

His eyes opened and that same arrogant smirk flitted across his face, “Thank you,” he said. 

“Oh thank you,” she chuckled, hands carding through his hair. “Consider this a gift. Thought you could use it.”

It was approximately six hours after Molly Hooper became Dr. Mrs. Molly Hooper -- she kept her last name for professional reasons -- and the Baker Street flat smelled thickly of sex. Irene had met with him shortly after he texted his response and the two of them spent the evening shagging like bonobos during mating season.

He sat up and fumbled to remove the condom. A few moments later, he returned with a glass of water and a lit cigarette between his lips. He handed Irene the water, which she accepted. 

“You saw the wedding announcement?” he exhaled a stream of smoke.

She nodded. 

“It was lovely, thanks for asking,” he continued, filling the silence with words. “I suppose you heard the other news?”

Irene shook her head. 

“They’re moving to America in two months -- the pathology supercouple,” he said with a faint hint of unintended bitterness. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s goes against conventional wisdom to be telling the woman you’re having intercourse with about the woman you’re in love with.”

“Darling,” she began, “You forget, I used to be a domme. I’ve seen and heard stranger things. After all I found out state secrets,” she grinned at that memory and the chase. Almost a lifetime ago, but still a fond memory.

Another smile flitted across his face, kinder and warmer as he remembered those days. 

“Why aren’t you talking to John about this?”

“He thinks I should get over this. That I should just start dating --” Sherlock did a full body shudder at the word  _ dating _ . “He doesn’t understand.”

“Which is why you didn’t say anything about our arrangement. He would start planning weddings immediately,” Irene chuckled at that. 

“He doesn’t know you’re married already,” Sherlock snorted, “And he thinks that what I feel for you is the same as Molly.”

Irene studied her hand and the slender pave diamond wedding ring. “Sex isn’t always love,” she observed, “For me, this is like having a running partner. And Gabrielle has great taste and the sense to know better than to be threatened by you.” 

In Irene’s experience, few women were as accommodating as Gabrielle Norton. Most people -- male and female -- asked her to pick a side. Either she was lesbian or she was heterosexual. Irene had come to the conclusion she was lesbian, but definitely interested in Sherlock Holmes in a carnal sense. It was more of a meeting of minds than anything else. Well, that and he was an outstanding lover and sometimes she had a craving for his penis. 

“So where is your wife?” he asked. 

“New York,” Irene replied, “She’s got a major role in the revival of Company. She sends her regards. I’ll be heading there next week to see her on opening night.”

Sherlock grunted. He was never one for theater, Irene recalled. Any discussions about Gabrielle’s work was often met with a blank stare or barely disguised disinterest. When Gabrielle and Sherlock first met, Irene was aghast at his bad manners. Gabrielle found him hilarious. The few times they met for dinner, she loved to torture him by belting out One Day More from Les Miserables.

Truth be told, Irene also found that hilarious. 

“So why haven’t you tried meeting other people?” she asked.

“It only works if you’re interested in moving on,” he said as he began getting dressed, puffing away at the cigarette. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to rot away in unrequited love and despair like Miss Haversham,” Irene replied. 

He blinked, obviously not getting the reference. She rose from the bed, kissed him on the nose and said, “Look it up. I’m going to shower.”

A half hour later, after she was clean and presentable he finally looked up from his phone. He was lounging on the bed, propped up by pillows. “I am not going to be swanning about in a crumbling estate in a wedding dress corrupting Rosie,” he said, “That wasn’t funny.”

“I thought it was.” She settled next to him. 

Irene was rewarded with a sigh of disgust. 

“I’m not interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with anyone because I don’t want anyone else,” he said. “I’m not interested in wasting my time on that. I tried it, it didn’t work and I’m done. There are other areas I can devote my life to and frankly, it would be more rewarding.”

“Fair enough,” she said, ruffling his hair. Irene knew he wasn’t quite telling the whole truth, but let him be. “So you never loved me in the same manner?” she didn’t bother to pretend to be hurt. 

There was a quick shrug of the shoulders. “How did you know you wanted to marry Gabrielle? What made you decide you wanted domestic bliss with her?”

Irene closed her eyes, willing the memory to life. “You are a dear,” she said. “But I can’t picture calling you when I’ve got a stomach bug, begging for soup because I’ve spent most of the day in the toilet completely sick.”

“She did that for you?”

Irene smiled at the memory, “Slept in the bathtub to make sure I was fine. Brought my favorite soup and crackers. Helped wash all the sick off of me. When you think of someone doing something like that, who do you think of?”

“Molly,” he looked pained at the answer. 

She felt a pang of pity. “Oh dear boy,” she said, reaching for his hand, “I’m sorry.”

He pushed her hand away. “It is what it is,” he said, rising from the bed. 

Irene nodded. “Well, it’s been fun,” she said, rising. “I’ll see you later.”

Lost in his phone, Sherlock grunted and waved a goodbye. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that things seem to be taking a weird twist, but trust me. I have a plan. It'll BE AWESOME!!!!

**_Thirty years later…_ **

“Morning Mycroft!” Gabrielle’s voice rang out on the kitchen as she pressed a button on the coffee maker for her (now fifth -- Irene was sure of that given that Gabrielle was working on her play at near dawn) and waved cheerfully at the microwave. 

Irene looked up from her touchpad, where she was going over the morning headlines. “I now regret ever telling you about Mycroft,” she said, sipping her coffee.

Gabrielle -- a curvaceous Latina woman with a wide open face -- smiled brightly at her wife. Her dark brown hair, which had a few streaks of grey, was tied up in a messy bun. She was dressed casually in wide-legged pants and a t-shirt  that said “Well Dressed and Coffee Obsessed.”

“You say that every morning,” she said, adding cream and sugar to her coffee, “and I’m still fascinated knowing that there’s this single man monitoring everything in England.” She studied the sunny pastoral view outside their kitchen window. “Do you think he went transhuman and merged with the computers?” she mused, sipping her coffee.

Irene rose from her seat and approached her wife, and put her arms around her. Kissing her good morning, Irene wrestled the mug away from Gabrielle.

“No more coffee for you,” she said, adding another peck to her cheek. “You know the doctor said you needed to drink more water and I’m pretty sure that’s your fifth cup since you got up.”

“I think it’s a legit question,” Gabrielle said. “All microwaves now have camera and Internet technology -- how else can I see if the popcorn is ready while I’m writing and can’t hear the bell? You heard about that slow cooker that was hackable when we were younger -- it’s entirely possible now.”

Irene snorted. For someone who loved technology and gadgets, Gabrielle was also very good at hitting the paranoid issues Irene had regarding the advancements in the past thirty years. Self driving cars, avatar butlers, homes that basically had a nerve system that could detect when people were in it or not. Given how easily hackable things like that could be, Irene wondered why on earth people would choose convenience over privacy. 

Then she would take a sip of her coffee, which was made to exactly her specifications -- Italian roast, black and strong -- and realize that personalization was very alluring. It was why face-to-face service would never be fully extinguished, despite the rise in automation and digital wonders. While a digital coffeemaker could make her coffee perfect, she doubted it could give a massage to her satisfaction.

_ If I was still in the game, I could probably be ridiculously rich from people dissatisfied with their domme avatars, _ she would think on more than one occasion.

“You know,” Gabrielle said, stroking her hand across Irene’s cheek with a fond smile, “You didn’t answer my question -- did he merge with the computers?”

Irene shrugged, “I have no idea,” she said, stealing a sip of overly sweet coffee from her wife. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. But I wonder if it would bore him.”

Gabrielle snatched the mug back, “In which case, if he’s watching, don’t you think it’d be nice to have someone say hello?” she said, downing her coffee before Irene could stop her. 

“Only you would think of Big Brother in such warm terms,” Irene said, taking the mug to the sink and rinsing it out, then filling it with water.

Gabrielle accepted it. “And you love me for it,” she teased.

Irene smiled. Of course she did -- it was obvious. After dealing with the darker side of life and playing with danger for so many years, Gabrielle’s sunny attitude and optimism was the change she didn’t realize she needed until they met at a party more than thirty years ago. 

“I do,” she admitted.

There was a comfortable silence as the two puttered around the small cottage kitchen. Their dog -- a brindle and white whippet named Keppel with a rhinestone studded collar -- entered the kitchen and nosed around for scraps. Finding none, she let out a disgusted sigh, then flopped down on Irene’s feet.

“So what are your plans for today?” Gabrielle asked after she finished her yogurt and fruit.

“I have a volunteer shift down at the shop in an hour,” Irene replied, rising from her seat. “More writing or am I going to come home and find you talking to the refrigerator?”

Gabrielle snorted, brown eyes bright with mirth. “I’m taking Keppel out for a walk to get this scene sorted,” she said. “I’ll see you later tonight?”

Irene nodded, “I’ll see what I can find at the shops for dinner,” she said.

“I’m also good with pizza,” Gabrielle said, “No worries. We’ll figure it out.”

Even though the world had become more automated in the past three decades, as technology took over most of the service jobs, people still refused to become completely isolated. In Irene’s village the residents still insisted on going to the shops on the weekend, clogging up the aisles and stopping to gossip as they looked through the tins of vegetables. 

And the village store, which ran on volunteer service, was still thriving after fifty years because people still had the need to congregate. For someone who made a thriving life providing service, Irene wasn’t surprised when she found that she was an exceptional volunteering at the shop. 

Not to mention, the gossip was some of the most delightful stuff she ever heard. Most of it was mundane, but after being on the run for nearly a decade for trading more illicit secrets, she was thrilled to exchange information, even if it was on a smaller level.

The best thing was probably watching Gabrielle’s eyes light up when she’d exchange information and stories at the end of the day. 

The sunny morning proved to be deceptive as clouds began to roll in when Irene arrived at the shop. Judging by the forecast, the rain wouldn’t arrive until later in the evening, allowing Gabrielle time to work out whatever writerly woes she had. Trotting down the street, Irene quickly took in her appearance in the window.

A woman in her late-sixties, Irene kept her salt-and-pepper hair long.  Today it was up in a chignon. Fine lines were around her eyes and mouth, but other than that, she still looked relatively the same. Walking her dog, excellent diet and regular exercise were her secrets when asked.

The truest secret was that she also had regular naps on bed of light as well as electric pulse therapy for her skin. Not to mention a moisturizing routine that rivaled selkies. If people found out about it, they wouldn’t be surprised, but disappointed, Irene knew. People always wanted the hope that the key to keeping their youthful looks was as simple as sunscreen. Sunscreen may help, but good genes and access to the latest skincare technology were a definite boost.

Smoothing her khaki slacks and adjusting her floral print blouse, Irene opened the door and entered the shop. 

“I don’t know why you fuss so much,” she heard Eugenia say as she entered the shop. “You always look fabulous.”

Eugenia, a raven-haired Scottish woman, always greeted Irene in a blunt fashion. Irene didn’t mind. She found her amusing. Given that Eugenia raised four boys and ruled over her family with an iron fist (her husbands having either died or dismissed long ago), Irene understood that Eugenia didn’t have time for pleasantries and just went straight to the point. 

“It’s not for you,” Irene replied, sliding behind the counter to check the post and sort through package. “Sometimes it’s nice to verify that you are looking as fabulous as you think.”

Eugenia snorted.

They worked in tandem for an hour -- Irene sorting through the post and getting packages ready to be picked up while Eugenia stocked shelves. She was handling letters when she stopped and stared at an address with a familiar name on it.

_ Molly Hooper _

The address was three doors down from her house. 

“Yeah, the new widow in town,” Eugenia said. Irene blinked, wondering when she snuck up behind her.

“She moved into the Jacobs house?” 

“Yeah, about three weeks ago, from America,” Eugenia said. “Came back after her husband died about two years ago. She should be in later today for her packages. She’s still waiting for her furniture and other things.”

Irene sorted out the letter. “What’s she like?” she asked.

“Pleasant,” Eugenia began talking -- she loved gossip and knew its value. “Not as fabulous as you, but she’s sweet. Doctor of diseases or something like that. She offered good advice for my hips. Loves talking about her cat Spilsbury. Apparently he likes to wander a bit and she warned me he likes to go rooting in flowerbeds.”

Irene internally winced at the thought of the cat turning her crocuses into a litterbox, but that thought was quickly eradicated by another thought. 

_ Did Sherlock know Molly was back in the country?  _

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading!

“What on Earth is that?” Gabrielle poked at the cake on a white scalloped cake stand resting on the gleaming white marble of the kitchen island. The cake was simple round, covered in white marzipan with tiny, delicate yellow flowers dotting the top of it. It was sitting on the kitchen island, ready to be borne to Doctor Hooper’s by a kind, yet slightly nosy neighbor. 

“It’s for our new neighbor,” Irene said. “Stop poking at it. It’s not set yet.”

Gabrielle grinned. “You mean the girl that Havisham has been pining over for the past 30 years?” she sipped her coffee. Irene wondered for a moment where on earth she produced the coffee -- it was like she had an extradimensional pocket that just made her overly sweetened coffee.

“Is it really a good idea to call her a girl, when she’s as old as us?” 

“Speak for yourself,” Gabrielle said, dramatically tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I recently celebrated my eleventh anniversary turning forty-nine.”

Irene shook her head, always amazed that Gabrielle would refer to her age like that. “But yes,” she said, adjusting her apron, “I got this for the esteemed Doctor Molly Hooper.”

“Nosy,” Gabrielle snorted.

“Curious.”

“Why?” Gabrielle leaned forward on the island, coffee mug to her lips. 

Irene shrugged. “I just want to see what he found so captivating,” she said. 

“Jealous?”

“No.”

“Liar,” her grin got bigger. 

Irene chuckled. “Maybe a little,” she admitted, unable to articulate exactly why. The thought kept tickling her in the back of the brain, not fully born. Why was she jealous? What was it about Molly -- who she had seen in pictures and heard Sherlock talk about -- but knew very little about in reality?

There was a long silence. She glanced at Gabrielle, who was watching her with that puckish smile on her face. That smile that meant she understood what Irene was feeling, before she could even articulate it. 

_ Never marry a singer/actress/writer Juilliard graduate who also got a degree in psychology for fun _ , she ruefully thought.  _ It gives unfair leverage in fights. _

“I’m jealous --” she began, voice tentative, “I’m jealous that she’s gotten something that I couldn’t get from him, and to be fair -- I couldn’t give him.”

“Which is?” Gabrielle sipped her coffee.

Irene closed her eyes, feeling that horrible anticipation of showing weakness. Which was stupid, given they had been together for thirty years, but old habits die hard. “Weakness,” she said, “Vulnerability. That truth behind the facade.

“I’m like that cake,” she rambled. “He’s like that cake -- we have the looks and beauty and charm, but if you cut us open, we are messes. We both know that perfectly gorgeous cake is pretty dreadful on the inside -- dry and without joy.”

“You know that’s not true,” Gabrielle said. “I happen to find your cake pretty tasty.” She waggled her eyebrows and leered.

Irene smiled, feeling a little safer.

“And you know you can’t get everything from everyone,” Gabrielle continued, “He wasn’t willing -- or able -- to give that to you during the whole stealing state secrets thing and that set you guys on a certain path. Like you’d show him your soft underbelly after he screwed you over.”

Irene began to laugh, “Only you would describe what I did in those terms in such nice terms.”

“Well, it ended the way it should have,” Gabrielle shrugged and took another sip from her coffee. “Technically you shouldn’t have had those secrets. And if he didn’t figure it out, you wouldn’t have gone on the run, he wouldn’t have rescued you, you wouldn’t have come to America to lie low for a bit, and we would’ve never met at that party. So from my view, it worked out perfectly.

“It’s okay that you’re curious,” she continued. “Besides, it wouldn’t hurt for you to make another friend. Or mess with Havisham's life a little.” Gabrielle grinned at that last sentence. “He needs more upending in his life  -- the last we heard he was wrestling with jellyfish or something insane like that. I know your intentions are good, but I want you to make sure you know your intentions are good.”

She poked at the fondant flower, which finally gave under the pressure of her fingertip. “Also, if you’re going to go in and try to get to know her, I don’t think a dried-out 3-D printed cake you ordered online is going to work,” she said. “Especially if you described it in such unflattering terms.”

“I’ll have you know I ordered this from the best bakery in London,” Irene retorted, embarrassed, but also glad to have something else to talk about. Cooking was never one of her strong suits. Most of the time she didn’t care, living on tea, fruit and cheese (“ingredients in search of a meal” Gabrielle once teased), but this was different. This was baking to impress.  

Gabrielle studied her wife from across the island with a warm expression. “Take the flan instead.”

Irene’s eyes widened, surprised that she would volunteer her flan. It was one of those desserts that Gabrielle made in celebration of events, because finding the ingredients to replicate the memory of her abuela’s flan was such an arduous task, even with all the modern conveniences. 

“You mean the flan that you used to seduce me?” she asked, remembering the meal that Gabrielle had made that one night in the small studio in Manhattan with the two-burner stove. After that night, Irene had decided that maybe, just maybe, Gabrielle was worth standing still for.

Gabrielle made her way around the island to her wife, wrapping her arms around Irene’s waist and resting her chin on Irene’s shoulder. “Please,” she said, kissing her on the cheek. “I used my mole recipe to seduce you. The flan sealed the deal.” 

Another kiss was placed along her neckline. “If she did spend more than twenty years in America, like you said, she’s got to be missing some good Mexican food,” she mused into her ear. 

Irene let out a soft sigh, her fingers winding in Gabrielle’s hair, encouraging her to continue. “It is a shame that England still hasn’t gotten decent Mexican food,” she murmured, distracted.

“Especially since Mexico is a major world power now,” Gabrielle mused. “It’s amazing they bailed out the UK last year. I was really hoping part of the deal would be some taco trucks.”

“Me too,” Irene said, turning to kiss her. 

They stayed like that for a few minutes, until the sound of a car horn beeping broke the spell. 

“I’ve got to go,” Gabrielle said, pulling away. “Show in London tonight.”

“I know. You’ll be back tomorrow.”

“This play doesn’t write itself. Even though I keep staring at the screen disappointed.”

Irene laughed.

“You better have good gossip for me and I promise to bring back stories for you,” Gabrielle kissed Irene. “I hope you realize I approve of that plot in your head. I always wanted to be a character in a quirky British romantic comedy about a small village that meddles in someone’s love life.”

Gathering her things, Gabrielle headed to the door. Before exiting, she called over her shoulder, “One more thing. Keep the flan in that dish.”

“But that dish is chipped --” Irene began.

“It will show you’re human and messy,” she cut her off. “Trust me. People like a little mess. Bonus points if you admit I made it and you can’t cook your way out of a paper bag.”

“I can cook a cheese sandwich,” Irene retorted.

“On the printer,” Gabrielle finished off. “And I still love you.”

“I love you too,” Irene called out as the door shut.

~*~

One thing Irene learned early in life was that everything was about presenting the right face. When she was young, it was the ingenue who seemed naive enough for people to take under their wings and care for her. In middle age, it was the experience and mettle of a bitch contrasted by a thin veneer of vulnerability to make you human enough to get past people’s defenses. Senior age was a little harder, but Irene found herself caring less as she got older -- by that point most women had hit a certain “lack of fucks” and their true selves were revealed.

And Irene’s true self was a bit haughty, a bit vain, but also charming and witty. Not to mention having some of her connections helped grease wheels.

Which was great for getting producers to open their pockets for a play or concert, but when trying to make a friend? Little more difficult.

And it didn’t help her conversation with Gabrielle was leaving her a little more raw than usual, which could be useful, if she knew how to harness it.

That vulnerability still lingered as Irene stood in front of tidy cream-colored brick cottage with the robin’s-egg blue front door with the brass knocker.

Taking a deep breath, Irene knocked on the door.

There was the sound of movement in the house as she heard a woman’s voice call, “Coming!” 

A few seconds later, the door opened and Irene was face to face with Doctor Molly Hooper, love of Sherlock Holmes’ life.

The first thing Irene noticed was that they were the same height and with the same slender build. She was wearing a cardigan with a cherry print on it. Under that was a red t-shirt. She was wearing jeans. Molly’s chestnut hair was streaked with grey and in a chin-length bob. There was a bit of curl to it. 

But it wouldn’t be fair to say that Sherlock had a type. Molly’s brown eyes were what writers called doe-like -- kind, but with a hint of melancholy underneath. Fine lines were on her face and she looked weary -- probably from the move and unpacking. Her chin was set stubbornly as she studied Irene for a long moment. 

“Yes?” she asked.

Irene’s smile got fixed. “Hi!” she chirped. Chirped. Irene berated herself in her head for the false tone of cheerfulness. “I’m your neighbor and thought I’d come by and introduce myself,” she said, continuing to wonder why the hell she sounded like someone from the local church committee looking for donations to help with the upkeep of the cemetery. 

She thrust out the chipped dish with the flan in it, “I thought I’d bring a little welcoming gift,” she rambled, inwardly wanting to wring Gabrielle’s neck for putting her off kilter. “It’s my wife’s flan. Nothing too fancy, but it’s amazing.”

Molly blinked, then a wary smile spread across her face. “It’s amazing how quickly gossip spreads around town,” she said dryly, accepting the dish.

Irene chuckled, “Not much else to do,” she admitted. “And it’s not often you get new residents.” Things were moving a towards familiar ground. “Irene Adler.”

Molly’s eyes flickered slightly as if there was a bit of recognition, which put Irene on more unsteady footing, if that was possible. 

The smile widened, but didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was clear she recognized the name. Irene waited for a cutting remark, the flan thrown to the ground and a door to slam, when Molly said, “Come on in.”

Irene followed Molly into the house, which was smaller than her home. Boxes were stacked around a overstuffed, brightly colored couch. A small writing desk was pushed up against the front window with a computer on it. A digital picture frame hung over the fireplace, flipping through pictures of Molly and (who she assumed) her husband, pictures of family vacations in front of Mount Rushmore, Disney World, snorkeling in the Caribbean. In some of the pictures were twin girls, lithe and blond with the fit secure look of children who never knew what it was like to not be adored. But in their favor, the girls also had the same open, kind expression their father had, instead of a spoiled, petulant look.

_ What is it with Americans and openness? _ Irene wondered.  _ They always look like they’re ready for adventure. _

“My stepdaughters,” Molly said. “That’s my -- well was -- my husband’s girls.”

“They look lovely,” Irene said. 

Molly’s smile got more knowing, which was unnerving. “They are,” she said. “Vanessa and Nina. Vanessa just had her second child. Nina just got married.”

_ Why are you being so open with me? _ Irene wondered.  _ Thirty years in America really changes a person. _

“Is that your husband?” Irene asked stupidly, pointing to a wedding picture were Molly was laughing as her husband’s face contorted into an overly comedic grimace.

“Observant. Was it the wedding gown and tuxedo?”

Irene laughed. “It was a clue,” she confessed. 

“That’s Michael,” Molly said, a fond smile on her face. “He died two years ago. Heart attack.”

“I’m sorry.”

Molly shook her head, “I don’t know why I’m opening up like this so soon,” she said. “Maybe it’s because my cat is tired of hearing me prattle on,” she glanced at Irene. “Want  drink?”

_ Come into my web said the spider to the fly _ , Irene thought. “Yes,” she said, following Molly into the small kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the bright yellow curtains. Molly put the flan down on the counter.

Molly reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of gin and two glasses. Pouring a healthy amount of gin into both, she added soda before rummaging in the fridge and producing a small container of lime slices. Dropping a slice of lime into both glasses, she handed one to Irene.

“Cheers,” she said. “To new friends.”

“New friends,” Irene echoed back, trying to ignore the warning blares in the back of her head. 

She sipped the drink, which was made with the expert hand of someone who loved gin.

Molly studied her with a puckish grin. “So,” she began, “How’s Sherlock?”


	5. Little announcement (so more of a detour)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am stuck on a chapter and battling the structure. And real life is going to take precedent for a bit. Hopefully I can write, but I'm not making promises as I beat this sucker into shape. 
> 
> Which I've whined about on Tumblr. Below is a post of me whining about it, wishing I could've done it in the voice of the Latin Narrator from Jane the Virgin (a great show that I highly recommend). 
> 
> I hope you find it funny, because I find it funny. Because my pain is your comedy.

 

HOLA! IS EVERYONE READY? OK! WHEN WE LAST LEFT IRENE, MOLLY HAD CONFRONTED HER ABOUT SHERLOCK.

Molly: SO HOW’S SHERLOCK?

*cut to Irene looking surprised*

I KNOW? CRAZY RIGHT?

LET’S GET BACK INTO THE ACTION. 

WHEN MOLLY HOOPER WAS 37 YEARS OLD, SHE THOUGHT SHE HAD THE LOVE OF HER LIFE

*jump cut to this guy*

[Originally posted by ayyuz](https://tmblr.co/ZPsfzt2Jw2rQ7)

BUT ALAS IT WASN’T TO BE. SEE SHERLOCK HAD SOME ISSUES OF HIS OWN.

SEE HIS APARTMENT HAD BEEN BLOWN UP:

[Originally posted by whyimmathere](https://tmblr.co/Zh2rRu2HN2Y7Y)

AND THE PERSON BEHIND IT WAS HIS SISTER – THAT HE DIDN’T KNOW HE HAD!

[Originally posted by mollydobby](https://tmblr.co/ZUNA5v2KC5WO5)

BECAUSE HIS MEMORY WAS REPRESSED BY HIS BROTHER AFTER SHE KILLED HIS CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND! 

[Originally posted by letsdiscussaboutsherlock](https://tmblr.co/Zy1O2g2CREhNx)

AND HIS BIG BROTHER IS GOING THROUGH HIS OWN ISSUES BECAUSE HIS SISTER ALSO CHOSE TO TORTURE HIM, SHERLOCK AND HIS BEST FRIEND JOHN.

[Originally posted by dawningday84](https://tmblr.co/Z-1Awe2Jdul_R)

[Originally posted by thistie](https://tmblr.co/Zt7FUn2K9P3MT)

AND JOHN'S NOT SO HAPPY ANYMORE SINCE HIS WIFE – WHO HE THOUGHT WAS A NURSE AND WAS A SPY GOT MURDERED!

[Originally posted by doctorstrangebatch](https://tmblr.co/ZCna4l2GtN_mk)

SO HE WAS DEFINITELY DEALING WITH SOME ISSUES OF HIS OWN WHEN HE TOLD HER HE LOVED HER.

[Originally posted by whoeveryoulovethemost](https://tmblr.co/ZHO4Wo2HNWFa1)

I KNOW? CRAZY RIGHT? 

AND SO THEIR LOVE ENDED BECAUSE OF THIS. AND MOLLY MOVED ONTO MICHAEL:

[Originally posted by ohevansmycaptain](https://tmblr.co/ZzVdmj2K503jx)

AN AMERICAN PATHOLOGIST VISITING ST. BART’S FOR A YEAR. AND THEY FELL IN LOVE AND GOT MARRIED!

POOR SHERLOCK WAS HEARTBROKEN, BUT DIDN'T TELL HER, CHOOSING TO ENSURE HER HAPPINESS OVER HIS.

AND MOLLY MOVED TO AMERICA! 

*cue graphic of plane flying to Baltimore*

ALAS, MICHAEL DIED AFTER 27 YEARS TOGETHER, AND IRENE DISCOVERED THAT MOLLY MOVED BACK TO ENGLAND.

AND IRENE WANTS TO KNOW, DOES SHERLOCK KNOW? DOES MOLLY KNOW? DO THEY WANT TO SEE EACH OTHER? AND THIS IS HOW WE ARE HERE!

WHEW. OUR RECAPS ARE GOING TO NEED RECAPS. ARE YOU READY BECAUSE I AM!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Latin Narrator voice* HOLA! We're so glad that you could join us on this little trip! Sorry about the delay, but you know how life takes its little twists and turns. 
> 
> Anyways, let's get caught up with Molly, our fetching widow, who recently moved back to England, the land of tea and crumpets!
> 
> But first we need to thank GS Jenner for describing the perfect meatloaf sandwich and giving a great analogy for Sherlock and Michael. Anything else is the writer's fault.
> 
> And now on with the show! /Latin Narrator voice

**_Thirty-two years ago….._ **

Over time and no matter how smart we think we are or how much we trust our powers of recollection, memories prove to be unreliable. Tainted by feelings, changing perspectives and further understanding of situations, memories distort and change to reflect not just that moment, but also who we are right now.

Which is why Molly’s memories of her breakup with Sherlock were kinder than what most people expected. But they didn’t see what she saw. And, as usual, people had underestimated her own powers of observation.

Sherlock tried -- to his credit -- to be the best romantic partner possible. Even though Eurus had extracted words of love out of him under duress, he meant every word. He told her that repeatedly. First when he came to her after Sherrinford, then when he stayed with her as people searched her flat to ensure her safety, then after they left, finding nothing but cameras. He told her he loved her before and after the first kiss (which still made her smile fondly) and before and after their first time. 

It’s because he loved her that he broke up with her. That was one thing of which Molly was quite certain.

Love can’t save everything. Especially love realized during incredible ongoing stress. 

In the weeks following Sherrinford, Mary’s death and Baker Street exploding, Sherlock suddenly found everyone looking to him to help guide them out of the emotional warzones that he could barely comprehend. Eurus was no longer responding, choosing to communicate only in music -- and even then only with him. Mycroft was sleeping even less than usual, drinking more and eating nothing, drawing further inside himself.

Even his parents weren’t spared as guilt ate away at both of them. Luckily they were also of stronger stuff than what Mycroft estimated and were working through everything the best way they knew how. But work still needed to be done to repair their relationship with their oldest and youngest.

If Eurus wanted to destroy her family, she did a damn good job without having to commit murder. Dragging the truth to the light and forcing people to confront the past was damaging enough. For some misguided reason that Molly never could extract from Sherlock, he wasn’t willing to let her help him through this, choosing instead to protect her from it as if she was a delicate china doll that could be broken with a stiff breeze.

It was funny -- when he didn’t know he loved her, Sherlock was unafraid to show every horrible part of him. But once he realized his heart, the desire to protect Molly caused him to hide those aspects of himself for fear of losing her. 

Not that he would have, but Molly’s reassurances seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Which is why Molly wasn’t completely surprised to find herself sitting across a table in St. Bart’s with Sherlock. Both had mugs of coffee in their hands. Sherlock wouldn’t make eye contact with her.

“I love you,” he began hoarsely. He hadn’t slept in two days, she was certain of that, judging by the dark circles under his eyes. He looked pale and thin. Molly wondered who it was this time that needed him. Probably Mycroft -- not that he’d admit it, which would turn into a war of wills between the brothers.

“I love you too,” she answered back, knowing what would happen next.

Instead there was long silence. Sherlock fidgeted, unable to look at her.

“But --” Molly began.

He shook his head. “But I can’t be the man you want me to be,” he said softly. “Not now at least. And it’s not fair to keep you around in potentia.”  

She reached out and took his hands. He looked up at her surprised, eyes wet.  

Molly could feel herself tearing up. “I understand,” she said quietly, knowing that even if she wanted to stay, she couldn't if the other half wasn't ready. “I’ll always love you. You know that?”

He nodded. 

“Even as a friend,” she said, meaning every word. “I’ll always want you in my life.” 

**_Thirty-one years ago_ **

Doctor Michael Dier was a definite American -- tall, gregarious and with goofy sense of humor.  Molly found him attractive in a way that Sherlock wasn’t. Not that was it was a bad thing. It was different. 

He enjoyed talking with everyone about everything. He even loved his conversations with Sherlock, discussing poisons and how they mimicked diseases with glee.  Michael would often discuss football ( _ soccer _ he kept calling it) with Lestrade and traded random funny stories with John. Michael was so open and easy, that when Sherlock said he was attracted to Molly, it was easy to dismiss. 

True he had memorized her coffee order and knew which buns she liked and from where, but given how well Sherlock knew her -- and by now they were friends -- she assumed it was something that everyone did. 

But when she heard Sherlock say, “I want you happy. Even if it’s not me in that manner,” she decided to follow his advice. Clearly he had moved on, if he was focusing on her dating other people.

Besides, Michael was going to go back to America within a year. A fling might be the thing that Molly needed, she thought.

How wrong she was. 

Their first date was derailed by a case of poisoning. The tests had gone late into the night, and Molly had to miss the opportunity to see new Justice League musical written by Ed Sheeran and Pharrell Williams. Since the tickets were expensive and non-refundable, she urged Michael to go and take a friend. Amusingly enough, he invited Sherlock, who agreed, much to her surprise, given his hatred of musicals.

Around midnight, Michael returned to the lab with a meatloaf sandwich and a herbal tea for her.

“Don’t get too excited,” he said, “It’s leftovers from dinner, repurposed for you.” 

Molly unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Even cold, the sandwich was delicious with thick slabs of meatloaf that were deceptively moist and soft white bread, with lettuce giving it a bit of needed crunch. She was flattered that he remembered her after the musical. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “How was the show?” 

“Well, Superman’s rigging broke during the end of the first act and he nearly fell into the orchestra pit, so I’d say it was an entertaining evening,” Michael’s grin got bigger, and he began to laugh as he told the story of a poor actor, suspended by a single wire, dangling over the pit. “He was twisting on the line like a pinata,” Michael’s laugh turned into a guffaw, “But Wonder Woman’s invisible jet was pretty cool. The villains’ song that ended with a tap-dancing Joker, Lex Luthor and a chorus line of Banes was a bit much, but the music isn’t bad. It’s no Cannibal: The Musical, though.”

She laughed at that. 

“But I do have something you might get more excited over,” he said, digging into his messenger bag, pulling out a program. Handing it to her with a flourish, Molly let out a squeak of surprise at the signatures on it. 

“You did the stage door?” she asked, studying the signatures. “You even got Gabrielle Norton? Do you know how much I love her?”

He nodded, then grinned. “Well, Sherlock helped,” he said, “Got us backstage, did the funny hat and the whole bit. Apparently he and Gabrielle know each other -- but didn’t elaborate because she was too busy torturing him with that one song from Les Miz when she saw him. I’ve never seen anyone redden so much before.”

Molly smiled, touched by both their actions. “You both had a good time?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, “He was bored and annoyed, but also funny with his comments. So we had fun whispering back and forth during the slow bits. He’s a really funny guy and we had a great time discussing bloodborne pathogens as possible biological weapons. We did get some funny looks at dinner because of it.”

Looking back on it later, Molly realized that was the  _ oh shit  _ moment where she knew that this would be more serious than what she intended. To quote another musical she loved, this is where she realized three fundamental truths at the exact same time:

First it was the meatloaf sandwich, which he brought. Other people would’ve texted her a message, but he came and brought her dinner. It might have been leftovers, but they were delicious leftovers.

Second, it was how clear it was that he liked Sherlock’s company. Sherlock wasn’t an easy person to like and Michael liked him. She suspected Sherlock liked Michael also, given that he agreed to go to the musical. It could have been out of affection for her, but Molly knew he didn’t put himself in situations like that if it could be avoided. If Michael enjoyed Sherlock’s company, that was a definite sign of patience and kindness.

Third, the program. He got the cast signatures. And even more importantly -- he got Gabrielle Norton’s signature. The. Gabrielle. Norton. Molly had first seen her in the London staging of Waitress: The Musical and since then, was a fan of hers. In Molly’s opinion, Gabrielle Norton was an amazing singer and dancer with the ability to wring out tears with her rendition of She Used To Be Mine. Her Beatrice in a telenovela inspired Much Ado About Nothing (costarring Diego Luna) was sublime, proving her comedic skills. In the days immediately following her breakup with Sherlock, Molly found herself listening to her album on repeat, wrapping herself up in her rich voice, soothing her pain.

Michael wouldn’t have known all of this -- Sherlock probably tipped him off about it -- but the fact that he was not above accepting help mixed with him crediting Sherlock for the help was a definite point in his favor. It showed humility and generosity of spirit.

Molly put the sandwich down on the table and flung herself at him. She kissed him, hands twining in his hair. Michael stiffened, then relaxed into her, a small chuckle escaping him as he opened he mouth under hers

“I hope that makes up for missing the show,” he said, when she pulled away. He looked dazed, as if he had won the lottery after spending his last bit of cash for a sense of hope. 

“It helps,” she said, kissing him again.

From there the relationship deepened in ways that Molly didn’t expect. If Sherlock was like Pink Floyd’s The Wall, the Michael was the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds. Both brilliant, both complex, but also very different in their views of the world. Michael was deceptive -- his open communication and honesty about his emotions could have been labelled as naive, but then he’d say or do something that reminded her that he wasn’t a dullard. 

Frankly, the honesty was refreshing. And it disarmed Molly. Well, that and slow dances in her kitchen to Van Morrison as dinner cooked; wandering London and having long, irrelevant talks about anything and everything; the easy rapport they had at St. Barts of two people working in concert together.

She didn’t think she’d fall in love with Michael. But life often has different plans than what one believe should happen. And Molly fell in love with him -- a bright, sunny easy love that didn’t hurt because they were working as a team to get through everything.

Which is how she found herself sitting next to Michael on a park bench overlooking the Thames, eating a bacon butty that should have been delicious, but wasn’t. 

“I’m going back to America,” he began. “My girls --”

She nodded, understanding. Michael was divorced, the father of twin girls, aged six. He had explained that medical school wrecked his first marriage, that he neglected his ex-wife under the burden of residency and school, which resulted in a communication breakdown and her request for a divorce. The divorce had been civil and the girls were three when it occurred. While co-parenting in the States had gone well, the move to the UK had been harder on them than either parent anticipated. The girls needed their father, and he couldn’t leave them behind.

“And you never thought you’d be here forever,” she said, a sadness growing in her belly. Molly was old enough to realize how these conversations went, and like a lot of things -- sometimes love wasn’t enough. “I know the position was only for a year or so.”

“But I also really love you,” he continued, running his hand through his hair. “And I don’t want to lose you. I’m happier with you. I’m better with you.”

“Long distance relationships aren’t a great idea,” Molly began. “It’s not fair to either of us.”

“So I was thinking we should get married,” he said, cutting her off. 

This wasn’t going the way Molly anticipated. “What?” she said.

Turning to her, he grabbed her hand. “Marry me,” he urgently said. “Come to America with me. I know our country right now is shit with our government, we might go to war with Canada, but your government is also shit too and you’re on the verge of war with Spain, and if we’re all going to die, at least let’s die together and in love, instead of apart and wishing we were together --”

She began laughing at that, a breathless feeling of excitement, fear, anticipation and love bubbling in her. It wasn’t the most romantic proposal she had ever heard, but it was honest and an invitation to get messy in his life, which was strangely appealing.

“I’ve been talking with some colleagues,” he said. “I think we can get you a job at Office of the Chief Medical Examiner after you get certified. I know this isn’t great on paper -- you’d be the part-time mom of two girls, no job, a husband who makes weird puns about diseases, but on the other hand, you’d enjoy a real peanut butter and jelly sandwich for relatively cheap …”

“Yes,” she said.

His mouth stopped moving. “Wait,” he said, clearly amazed his rambling got a positive answer. “What?”

Molly leaned over and kissed him, feeling the world and all its richness open up to her. “Yes,” she said, before kissing him again. “I’m happier with you too.”

Sometimes she wondered what would’ve happened if she and Sherlock never parted. If he was a little more emotionally intelligent to know how relationships worked. If he didn’t underestimate her strength when it came to him. That she could’ve helped him, like before. Even though it wasn’t intellectually clean moves of chess, but the messier ends of emotions. 

Would the mess cause another relapse? Could she even help him manage his addictions without becoming another dependency? Would she have moved into Baker Street? 

She was pretty certain that they would’ve been happy. It would’ve been messy, but weren’t all relationships? Certainly being a stepmother had raised issues with Michael that she probably would have never navigated with Sherlock. 

So many unanswered questions.

They probably would’ve had one child or more, she would idly imagine. Brilliant and bright-eyed. Similar to her stepdaughters. Maybe a little more fraught emotionally, given how the Holmes handled their emotions. 

“Parallel universes,” Michael commented once, when she asked if he had any regrets. “So, no, not really.”

Molly raised an eyebrow in skepticism. Her husband was strangely in touch with his emotions, a remnant of a long stint in therapy after the divorce. 

“There was a scientist -- Hugh Everett III -- who postulated back in World War II that there were infinite universes,” Michael explained. “Every time we make a choice, the world splits into the different choices we make.”

“So you’re saying there’s a world where you and Renee never divorced?”

He nodded. “And I was a better husband to her, but that guy never went to London and never met you. Maybe there’s a universe where you married Sherlock. In both those cases, you never tasted the joy of a good peanut butter and jelly sandwich with bacon,” Michael leaned over and kissed her. “But we are here in this universe and I think we made a pretty good choice.”

She smiled, suddenly feeling reassured. “Is that how you don’t play ‘what-if’ with yourself?”

“Yup.”

It wasn’t a bad way to live, she realized. Hopefully another Molly in another universe was with her Sherlock and not regretting it for one minute, because in this universe, Molly didn’t regret marrying Michael Dier one bit.

**_Two years, four months, six days, seventeen hours ago…._ **

Memories are often unreliable, colored by our perceptions and then getting a sepia tone of time passing. Every day, Molly would revisit the following memory for a few minutes:

It was a sunny fall morning -- the good fall days when the leaves were changing color, there was a soft bite in the air, but  before the rain, cold wind and dark clouds came. Michael was standing in the kitchen, dressed for a long run with his blue running shorts and Johns Hopkins t-shirt on. He was lacing up his sneakers. 

Molly was at the kitchen table, glancing over the laptop and his latest paper, coffee mug in hand. “It looks good,” she said. “You’ve got some good findings here.”

Finishing lacing up his sneakers, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.  “So it makes up for me reading it to Spilsbury,” he asked.

She tipped her head up and caught his lips with hers. “Yes,” she said, after she pulled away, “But I will say I prefer watching to sing to Bruno a little more.”

“Bruno, unlike his brother, appreciates my talents,” he replied. “And while Spilsbury may like being read to, he doesn’t know the topic. Can you do a close read?”

Molly nodded, “I think I can do a bit while you go for your run.”

“Fantastic,” he said, heading for the door. 

“Don’t forget, Nina’s engagement party is tonight,” Molly added. “We can’t be late for that.”

“I can’t help it if you wear that little red dress that gets me hot and bothered,” he grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

“You say that about all my dresses,” Molly giggled.

“It’s true,” he replied. “They all get me hot and bothered.”

Rising from the table, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him again. “Go,” she said. “Get your run in. Maybe after we can get rid of some of that excess energy.”

He pulled away, that grateful, goofy smile of his that she had become so familiar with over the past twenty-seven years plastered on his face. “I love you,” Michael said, as easily as breathing.

“I love you too.” 

Molly would play that memory over and over in her head, every morning until it became unreliable and fuzzy, like a VCR tape played too often in a segment. 

Unfortunately, the memory would also then slide into the next one, where a police cruiser pulled up to the house and two officers rang the doorbell. She could never remember exactly what they said, but snatches of the phrases would echo in her mind.

_ Found on the side of the road…. _

_ Collapsed from sudden cardiac arrest… _

_ Can we take you to the hospital? _

_ Do you have family that can help you? _

_ We’re so sorry to tell you… _

Molly remembered collapsing in the foyer, the floor giving out under her feet, falling into darkness. Somehow Nina was there -- probably to go over the details of the party, but Molly couldn’t remember exactly -- to catch her, wrapping Molly in her arms as the sobs took over. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick one this time, bringing people back to the present.

_ How’s Sherlock?  _ With that question, Irene suddenly understood why Sherlock’s flame for her wasn’t a flickering candle, but the Lighthouse of Alexandria. 

She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face, despite her disbelief at how quickly Molly went straight to the point.

“You don’t like to play games,” Irene said, chuckling.

Molly’s grin got wider, before it faded. “Sherlock told me,” she said, reaching into a cupboard to get two plates. She pulled out a knife and cut two neat squares out of the flan. Plating them, she handed one to Irene and then motioned for her to sit at a small kitchen table with enough space for two.

Irene accepted the plate and put that and her drink down on the table. “Now I’m curious,” she began. “What did he say about me?”

“I asked him if he was ever in love before,” Molly said, sitting across from Irene. “He said he wasn’t, but you were the closest. More of a meeting of minds.” She took a bite of the flan and smiled at the dessert. “Oh my God,” she said. “Your wife is amazing.”

“I know,” Irene said. “So why are you here?”

Molly sipped her drink. “Well, I wasn’t stalking you for the record,” she began. “My mother grew up here and last year I decided to come back to England, but I didn’t want to live in London. Too many memories there.”

“Why come back?” Irene asked. “You’ve got family in America.”

“Too many memories also,” Molly said. “Since I moved there for Michael, everything I know there is tied to him.”

Over the course of the next two hours, Molly told Irene everything about America, Michael and life as a widow.

“There was no reason for me to stay,” she explained. “The girls live far away from us, so me moving back here wouldn’t have affected anything. To be honest, I got tired of the pitying looks from people who knew me there. They only knew me through Michael, and with him gone, I found some of our links weren’t as strong. A lot of people had opinions on how I should be living my life and I got tired of it.

“In the beginning, it was that I wasn’t getting over Michael fast enough,” she said, sipping her drink. “But last year, when I removed my wedding ring, people thought I wasn’t grieving enough.”

Irene snorted. “Everyone has opinions,” she said. “It’s the only thing some people have to offer.”

“Not that they mattered,” Molly replied. “The ones that mattered -- Vanessa and Nina -- understood,” Molly continued, toying with the remains of the flan. “Renee -- that’s Michael’s ex-wife -- also encouraged it because she knew how frustrated I was getting and how untethered I was in America. Really I couldn’t have been luckier to have such a lovely ex-wife in my life. I missed being seen as my own person and not someone’s wife, widow or stepmom. I’m my own person here.”

“What do you think Michael would say?” Irene asked.

“Does it really matter? He’s dead,” Molly said with a slight smile. “That’s what Renee told me. He’s dead, I’m still here and I still have living to do. And that's what he'd want me to do.”

A silence fell over the kitchen, tinged by sadness. A wave of mourning passed over Molly’s face and her eyes got wet. 

The nakedness of emotion embarrassed Irene. She wasn’t sure what to do. Given that they just met, it seemed like a bad idea to hug her, but the poor woman was remembering her dead husband. 

Then her mobile beeped. Loudly. Insistently. Irene dug into her pocket and fumbled to turn it off, while Molly let out a little giggle. Unfortunately instead of hitting the send to voicemail button, Irene hit the video option on the phone. 

“Hey baby,” Gabrielle’s face popped up on Irene’s phone, “Just checking in.” Her hair was up in rollers and her face was freshly scrubbed, ready for stage makeup.

Molly’s eyes widened and she let out a shriek at the voice. “Is that Gabrielle Norton?”

“Is that Havisham’s girl?” Gabrielle’s voice soared and she began craning her head. Not that it would have done anything, but it was a natural reaction when one heard something interesting happening. 

Irene sighed and set the phone down on the table. Tapping the screen, a holographic projection of Gabrielle sprouted from the mobile.

Molly covered her mouth with her hands and let out another squeal. “Oh. My. God,” she began.

Gabrielle’s face lit up and she began giggling and clapping her hands like an overexcited seal, “Oh. My. God,” she shrieked.

Irene felt her world twitch and shift sideways. “Oh. My. God,” she whispered, pinching the bridge of her nose, knowing that things were going to become  _ interesting _ .


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay with this. I had to wrestle with several different ideas that didn't work until I settled on this one. Hopefully you enjoy and remember: Comments are love. And I am a hooor.

Later that night, after all the excited “OH MY GOD!” squeals had ended, thoughts of Sherlock Holmes were put away for the moment, and promises were extracted that Gabrielle and Molly would meet in person, Irene found herself sitting alone in her bedroom, glass of wine in hand and blankets wrapped around her. 

Keppel was curled up against her and Irene was absentmindedly scratching her behind her ears when her phone rang. Irene sighed, knowing exactly would would be on the other end. 

“Mycroft,” she purred as she picked up the phone. 

“Ms. Adler,” his voice sounded weary and far away. 

“It’s Mrs. Norton now,” she replied, sipping her wine. 

“Mrs. Norton.”

“Much better,” she smiled. “What do I owe this pleasure?”

“I am concerned about recent news about a certain Doctor Hooper returning to our fair country.”

Irene’s smile faltered, but didn’t fade. She wasn’t certain whether or not he could see her and there was no way in hell he was going to see her mask slip.

“Are you?” she asked, taking another sip of wine. 

She could hear a soft sigh over the other line and for a moment she wondered where he was. Did he go transhuman? Was he tripping through her wires and watching her movements? Or was he locked in his office, glass of Scotch in hand, glancing through reports? 

“You know Sherlock is in recovery from his --” Mycroft’s voice caught for a moment, as if he was searching for the right words, “issues.”

“He’s been in recovery for the past fifteen years, ever since his retirement,” Irene replied, “He’s doing fine with his bees and jellyfish.”

“Which is my point,” Mycroft said. “He’s at the point now where he’s comfortable in his habits. We’ve had a stable peace with him for years now and my concern is that she could upend that.”

_ Typical male _ , Irene thought to herself. Keppel snorted and then whimpered, twitching her leg. 

“That’s not stability,” Irene sighed, “That’s treating him like a hothouse orchid.”

“Now you know with the climate change issues, that’s an outdated phrase,” she could hear Mycroft chuckle. 

“Fine, it’s a fragility like the Antarctic ice caps,” she retorted, “I don’t understand why you’re not talking to John about this. He’s Sherlock’s closest confidante.”

Mycroft snorted, “You know better than to send in an addict to watch an addict,” he replied. 

That was true. John was far from a voice of reason and Irene knew that. He might try and voice reason, but eventually he’d go along with whatever hare-brained scheme Sherlock had just to get the detective to shut his mouth. It was why Irene and Mycroft entered into this arrangement more than thirty years ago after Sherrinford and after Molly met Michael. 

_ “He’s losing his anchor,” Mycroft explained over dinner at Diogenes, decades ago. He was looking worn, but still polished and posh. Whatever was going on with their family was clearly taking its toll on him, Irene thought.  _

_ “What about John?” Irene asked. _

_ “John is unable to stop Sherlock. He merely enables him,” Mycroft said.  _

_ “Why should I say yes?” _

_ “You wish to marry Gabrielle Norton correct?” Mycroft thinly smiled. “Settle down and live a nice quiet life? I can ensure that you’re not looking over your back, waiting for your past to become present.” _

_ Of course he would know about her love, Irene thought to herself. How he figured out she wanted to marry her, Irene wasn’t sure -- maybe it was the credit card transactions for the engagement ring, maybe it was the CCTV footage of their dates in London -- it didn’t really matter.  _

_ The implied threat hung in the air, not that it was needed. Irene would always feel the pull of Sherlock, like being tugged into his orbit and she knew he felt the same. It wasn’t love and they knew it, but what it was neither was able to articulate. _

Her memory of that long ago meeting flickered, bringing her back to reality.

“At least alert him of her return,” Irene said. “Let him prepare himself.”

“John has already done that and he’s chosen not to contact her.”

Irene’s breath caught in her throat.  _ The idiot _ she thought to herself. 

“Did he give a reason?”

She could picture Mycroft’s sardonic smile. “Said he was busy with his bees and didn’t want to revisit the past.”

“You know that’s bollocks,” Irene said. “Six months ago he made the news for naming a new jellyfish species after her -- I believe it was  _ Desmonema Hooper _ ?” She was pleased to hear his huff of annoyance, “If that isn’t love, then what is?”

“Is he even on her mind?”

“Of course he is,” Irene said, “She asked how he was.” She didn’t bother asking how he knew she met with Molly that day. Mycroft could see everything and there was no point in wasting time on frivolous banter. 

“What did you say?”

“You know what I said.”

Another cold chuckle, “Of course,” he replied, “Redirection. Or what you thought was redirection.”

“She’s curious about me and I know that. I’m curious about her and she knows that. She’s not stupid,” Irene checked her clock. “Now my dear, it’s getting late and I do need some rest. Do you have any instructions for me or is this because you’re lonely? Because if you are, I can convince Gabrielle to talk to the microwave more often.”

She grinned at the second huff of irritation. “There’s no point to giving you instructions,” he said. “I know you’re going to reintroduce those two to each other and there’s not much I can do about it.”

“Can do or want to do?”

There was a chuckle, but Irene couldn’t tell its temperature, then blessed silence as the connection died. Putting her phone away, Irene finished her wine and opened up a book to read. But instead of concentrating on the words on the page, her mind began spinning ideas and plans for the future. 


End file.
